Four Times Littlefinger Lost And One Time He Won
by LeCastor
Summary: Warning for Spoilerific things. A character study on Petyr Baelish, or Why Petyr Is a Bastard. Featuring Petyr Baelish, Edmure Tully, Lysa Tully, Catelyn Tully. ONE SHOT.


**One. ** There was a loud cheer around the table. The wenches and the ruffians laughed, one of them started belting a bawdy song as Edmure Tully arm-westled with success for the seventh time. He grinned, his red hair and his fuzzy little beard looking almost cocky on his behalf.

"Well, Littlefinger?" His tone was joking, welcoming, inviting, even. Petyr bristled at the monicker, but smiled amiably from the place where he'd been nursing his drink, sullenly.

"What is it, Edmure?"

"Won't you be the next one?"

Petyr snorted, raised an eyebrow. "Are you asking me to show my physical prowess? How surprising of you."

Edmure shrugged, turned to invite someone else to armjoust with him, but another belt, and then another, and then another kept calling for him to join. "Littlefinger, littlefinger." He resigned himself, lest he be called a coward, and went.

When it was done, Edmure said, clasping his shoulder. "Oh hay, Littlefinger, it's just a game, after all."

But wasn't everything a game?

**Two. ** "No, he's not an idiot," she retorted, angrily. "He looks good, and he's sweet, and I think I can be happy with him."

Petyr frowned, inwardly, but his outwards contenance was even. "Very well. Do you think you would reconsider if I beat him in a duel?"Catelyn looked at him in horror. "You wouldn't win, Petyr."

His eyes bore into hers, or tried to. "I would if I had your favor," he said, seriously. She stood, shaking her head.

"Petyr, you are my little brother. Don't speak nonsense." He bristled in quiet protest, then, but he let her go.

When Brandon`s blade was up in the air and the strike almost came, he didn't close his eyes. When the blow was averted by Catelyn's pleas, he understood that he'd lost her for good.

**Three. ** It would have been good, if she'd kept that infant. It would have been better if Holster had allowed the marriage. As he exited Riverrun, Petyr turned around and looked at the fortress one last time.

One day. One day he would wed one of his social betters. One day he would have a Tully for a wife. Gods be good – he wanted Cat, he could have had had Lysa. Damn Lord Holster and his stiff principles. He could remember the touch of her silky skin under his hands – and the way she sung for him. Like a mockingbird. Was it Lysa or Cat, who was singing so prettily? It has to be Catelyn. You can never expect a calf to sing.

Ah, one day. One day, Littlefinger would have his way and be wed, and wed well. But not today.

**Four. ** There had to be a book, somewhere, that supported his thesis. There had to be one, just one that would prove his theory that being the Master of Coin was enough elevation to grant him the Lady of the Aerye.

But try as he might, no page or inked paper would support his potential claim to wedding into a house that was great enough to his taste. He spent days and days, leafing through the heavy volumes, in search of something that might militate in favor of his rise to power.

Alas, nothing, as far as he could tell, could elevate him legally to greater holding than his ridiculous little estate on the Fingers.

**Five. **It wasn't personal at all. Really. There wasn't anything in him that rejoiced at the idea that perhaps he had caused (albeit indirectly) the death of Catelyn's beloved husband. The father of that sweet, lovely little bird who chirped so prettily. Ah, Sansa. Maybe then... But there was no time for such things, now. This was not a moment for distractions - the time for childish play had passed.

There wasn't anything in his eyes that gleamed, there wasn't any sort of hope that he might re-conquer the only person he'd ever truly come to love.

There was no sweet taste in his mouth, there was no singing victory hymn in his ears. Oh no.

There was only the cold, practical understanding of what had to be – he might even have liked the poor, broken wolf, in other circumstances. Ah, but such were the rules of a Game of Thrones. In this deadly game, you won or you died.

Besides, that little incident had taught Petyr something invaluable. Joffrey Baratheon was too dangerous to be allowed to remain alive.

Petyr wanted to live. He wanted to win. There was no other way. One had to play hard, or lose.

And Petyr was tired of losing.


End file.
